The Black Lamp
by Windon
Summary: One year into Jasmine's rule as the Sultan of Agrabah, Shirabad attacks the city, forcing Jasmine to turn to magic to save her people. Unfortunately, the only magic she knows of resides in a certain black lamp in the Cave of Wonders... [DARKFIC] POST-ALADDIN 2019
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.**

* * *

The crewman suppressed a yawn as the ship neared the port of Shirabad. He and his crewmates had made this journey a thousand times before, a typical trade between spices and silks. The routine was simple: they would dock; help the Shirabad soldiers board; give them fifteen crates of pepper and cardamom; receive fifteen crates of assam, tussar, and mysore silks; and sail back to Agrabah before dusk. Normally the ship made two trips to Shirabad in one week, but the new Sultan was an industrious woman, so they now made the journey four days a week. The crewman didn't mind. It doubled his pay, after all.

He suddenly heard the whine of boots on wood behind him. "To your stations!" said the first mate.

The crewman started grabbing fistfuls of rope and helped his crewmates raise the sails. Another crewman spat into the ocean and turned to him. "Wife making anything good for dinner?"

The crewman nodded. "Baklava."

"Praise Allah."

Shouts and commands peppered the air until the ship was safely docked. Crates were carried and slid across the hull, ready to be given to foreign hands. The crewman peered over the side and saw a group of fifteen Shirabad soldiers waiting on the docks—twice as many as usual. It was normally not a problem for seven soldiers to carry two crates themselves, but the crewman shrugged it off, figuring it could've been new protocol to handle the crates more carefully.

The other crewman scratched his chin. "Is it just me or are they missing some stock?"

The crewman frowned. He didn't notice that before. The fifteen soldiers stood without a single silk crate in sight. Perhaps there was a delay.

Emerging from the cabin, the captain of the Agrabah trade ship strode in weighted-boots across the deck to overlook the exchange. He was an intimidating man, built like an ox with piercing eyes and a thick black beard. The crewman had never seen him irate in all the years he worked for him, but he'd heard stories and he pitied whoever told the captain he wasn't going to get his silks.

"Drop the gangplank!" said the first mate.

The crew did as instructed and threw the board down at the soldiers' feet. The carriers started down with their crates and stacked them in three neat rows: the way it was always done. A brisk wind fluttered across the ship and the crewman closed his eyes, thinking of his wife cooking over the kettle and the warm wafting scent of honey and cinnamon at home.

The carriers made their way back up the gangplank one by one. The Shirabad soldiers, crateless, followed them up in their plated armor and leather knife belts—another oddity. The soldiers never armed themselves in a trade exchange.

The first mate mirrored the crewman's concern as the soldiers piled across the deck. "The order was for fifteen silk crates," he told them.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, his red cape billowing behind him like smoke. He reached into his belt and brandished a small, glinted dagger.

"All hail the she-Sultan," he said, smiling.

And then he lodged the knife deep into the first mate's neck.

In a matter of seconds, chaos ensued. The soldiers drew their knives and disbanded like a pack of wolves on the crew. Horrified, the crewman searched past the blurring bodies for a way out—an escape amidst the screaming, bleeding men.

Up on the deck, a Shirabad soldier had the captain pinned against the side of the ship, his dagger dangling above the captain's already bleeding forehead. But the captain held his own, his brute strength somehow restraining the soldier's knived hand. With an inhuman scream, the captain threw the soldier off of him and he rolled over the railing, plummeting straight into the ocean.

The crewman turned to do the same, climbing up the closest handrail. He felt like he was about to puke—his heart was beating so fast. He inhaled—

He couldn't.

He tried again, tried to inhale—

He couldn't.

From the back of his throat, pain bloomed like a flower. He reached up to his neck and felt something sharp, something metal.

He couldn't breathe.

_Pain._

The crewman fell face first into the ocean, a dagger buried in his throat.

* * *

Jasmine paced the Great Hall in an exquisite silver robe, one that trailed after her for several yards. Candlelight from red-glassed lanterns pooled across the polished floors and steps, creating a red glow throughout the ornate room. One of her hands slipped up to her face, cradling it, while she kept her eyes closed and took a long breath through her nose. After a moment, she exhaled and turned to the visitors.

"It's not possible," she told them.

Two men stood at the base of the steps: Hakim and the captain of a trade ship, standing as erect as he could in his soaked silks and armor, his forehead still bleeding from a cut. Despite the captain's formidable mass, his eyes were wide and desperate, the eyes of a man who had just seen death.

"I swear it, my Sultan," he said. "I swear it on my life. The men who ambushed us were soldiers of Shirabad."

Jasmine couldn't believe it. Ever since she heard the tale of the trade post incident, it felt impossible for her to process. The man seemed to be telling the truth—he was standing there in the Great Hall in the middle of the night with an obvious head wound, and Jasmine had always prided herself in trusting her people—but how could something so heinous and unseemly about an ally country be true? There had to be some misunderstanding.

The man saw the look on her face and stepped forward, pleading. "You must believe me—"

"Our alliance with Shirabad is nearly a century long," said Jasmine. "If these were men of Shirabad, why would they attack us now?"

Hakim glanced at the man from his position beside him, seemingly just as speechless about the situation as she was. The man shook his head, finding it difficult to form words.

Jasmine didn't relent. "Explain this to me, captain."

"They…" the man hesitated. "They called you the she-Sultan as they slaughtered my crewmen. They sang it. Openly."

A spike of anger ran through her, but she kept her face composed and regal.

"Are you suggesting that Shirabad men attacked your ship because I am a woman?"

The man stared back, unwavering. "And I lost my crew because of it."

"Hakim." Jasmine directed her attention to the guardsman, knowing she could always trust his judgement. He straightened upon attention. "Do you trust the captain's narrative?"

Hakim nodded. "I do, my Sultan."

"And do you find his reasons for such an attack valid?"

He paused but nodded again. "The reports I received confirm that one of our spice ships remains abandoned in the Shirabad harbor."

"Reconfirm it." Jasmine started up the Great Hall steps, her silver robe following her. "Send guards to Shirabad and have them search the ship for bodies. Have the news brought to me by nightfall tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" said the man.

Jasmine turned around. "Your account needs to be confirmed, captain, before we pursue a response."

The man looked affronted. "I just confirmed it to you—I was there! We must plan an act of defense for the sake of our traders and merchants at sea—!"

"And go to war?" she finished.

"My Sultan," he said, "they slaughtered my men in the cruelest ways. The things I saw…the way they died…" He gestured to Hakim. "Your captain can tell you I had no bearing against Shirabad my whole life, but something must be done and done now."

Jasmine could see the man was on the verge of tears—this tall, intimidating, black-bearded, bleeding man. She knew he was frustrated too, that his emotions were clouding all protocol to respect his sultan and obey orders. She couldn't punish him for this. The man had obviously been traumatized and had gone through some ordeal. The least she could do was respect that truth.

"You were very brave, captain," she finally said. "I'm glad you're alive."

The man visibly relaxed. Jasmine looked to Hakim. "Ensure this man gets treatment and food for his family as a reward for his courage and sacrifice."

Hakim inclined his head. Jasmine lifted her chin. "As for this affair, all matters of retaliation will be decided tomorrow."

"But—"

"Have I made myself clear?"

Her tone quieted the man. He grimaced, bowed his head, and pressed his fist to his breastplate.

"My Sultan," he said.

"My Sultan," Hakim said.

* * *

"Eat, Jasmine."

Jasmine looked up from her plate and across the table at her father, the former Sultan, who was on his second tabbouleh salad. She had been stroking her spiced cuisine into a nice flat surface, as if she could smooth away her troubled thoughts in a similar fashion. Twenty-two men were found on the Agrabah trade ship—stabbed and hacked and dismembered. She felt nauseous sitting there, surrounded by her family with food and servants while all those families mourned their brothers, sons, and husbands.

"You know I can't, Baba."

"Starving yourself won't help Agrabah now," said her father.

Aladdin sat quietly on her left, chewing his flatbread covered in eggplant. He had tried his best to be helpful ever since Jasmine got the news of the casualties, but he had little to say to comfort her other than the expected normalcies. Jasmine didn't fault him for it, though. How could anyone comfort her upon discovering that her people suffered such terrible deaths?

Aladdin returned her glance with a faint smile. Jasmine put down her fork.

"I just don't understand," she said. "We've been allies for a century. And that alliance was renewed when you married Mother. How could they turn on us now?"

"My dear, you are the first woman sultan." Her father reached for his chalice and drank. "The rest of the world does not know of your qualifications as we do."

"But to slaughter innocent traders of Agrabah…"

Jasmine felt a tap at her arm. She looked to see two furry arms offering her a purple date, accompanied with a questioning chirp.

She smiled. "No thanks, Abu."

The monkey wolfed the date down and swung himself back onto Aladdin's shoulders. Jasmine heard Aladdin clear his throat, likely feeling obligated to contribute something. "I assume Hakim has propositioned war?"

"As he should," said her father.

She sighed. "Baba—"

"If I knew, Jasmine, that you were unable to handle the responsibilities of being sultan, I would not have changed the law. My dear." He stared at her in earnest, clamping his hand above hers. "Being the Sultan doesn't always mean keeping the peace. It means protecting the people. Always. And if anyone, even Shirabad threatens the safety of Agrabah…you must do what it right for them."

Jasmine swallowed down the lump in her throat, the one that was growing and growing and cutting off her air supply. Even with all the stories she read, the battles she learned—she never expected to make such a decision herself. Her father had lived his entire life without having to authorize a single war expedition; it didn't seem fair that she had to do so at all, and so soon into her rule as the Sultan of Agrabah. Lives were to be lost in this decision. Agrabah lives. Wasn't the spilt blood on the Shirabad harbor enough?

"War cannot be the only answer," she said back.

Her father's retort was cut off by his fit of coughs. Jasmine leaned forward and pushed him his chalice. "Drink your water, Baba."

"I don't know much about war," said Aladdin, still chewing. "But I can see why'd you'd hesitate. What if the captain was wrong? What if the killers were only wearing Shirabad clothes?"

Jasmine poked at her cuisine and shrugged. "The captain swore on his life."

"Doesn't mean he lied," said Aladdin. "Maybe he was just misinformed."

Her father was still coughing. "Either way—" another cough, "—there is a—threat—against—"

"Baba?" Jasmine frowned.

His gripped the table and coughed and coughed into his fist. Jasmine tentatively stood and made her way over to hand him his chalice, but her father seemed unable to stop. Every cough sounded more and more like a desperate gasp for air—

Her father suddenly looked up at her, his face red and blotched. Jasmine stilled as her father's lips brimmed with blood. She dropped the chalice.

"Baba!"

Her father began to choke.

Jasmine screamed. The former Sultan hit the floor, blood spilling down into his beard and garment. He clutched at his throat, his gemstone rings glinting in the light.

Another small cough came from her left. Disoriented, she turned.

Aladdin gently touched his lip, touching the blood that ran down his nose like a red ribbon. He looked up at her, his eyes large and innocent.

"Jas—" he whispered.

"Guards!" she screamed. "Guards!"

* * *

The minaret bell rung one last time into the night, and then all was still. Fog hugged the seashores and docks, and the moon hung high and white and gibbous. Jasmine stood at the highest balcony of the palace, clutching her furred cloak to her chest against the cold, although it offered her little warmth. Nothing could warm her now.

A light wind hit her face, making her tears feel like ice against her skin. She could still feel the ringing of the bells in her body, wandering back and forth as if she were a hollow, lifeless crate. The silence it left behind was even louder, even more suffocating.

Her father hadn't survived the poisoning. He died there on the floor next to the breakfast table, surrounded by guards and healers that were useless to help him. Others performed an operation on Aladdin that succeeded in saving his life temporarily, but he still hadn't woken from his deep sleep since his confinement to the palace infirmary. Aladdin's youth, they told her, was the only thing that had slowed the poison.

Jasmine barely moved from the balcony since the incident. She felt so numb that the brisk wind was almost welcoming, a reminder that she could still feel something. She let her hair run free as she listened to the church bells ring for her dead father, as she watched the harbor workers chain up its ports to visitors, as she escaped the grief and worry for her husband stories beneath her feet.

She eventually heard booted-footsteps climbing up the stairs behind her, but she didn't turn. If it was another assassin there to finish the job, she wouldn't put up a fight.

But it was just Hakim. "My Sultan. I have news."

Jasmine remained still. "Did you find them?" she murmured, her voice hoarse from crying.

"Yes. We caught both assassins just outside the gates. They are in the dungeons now."

Jasmine blinked. More tears. Ice against ice.

"Were they from Shirabad?" she asked.

"Yes, my Sultan."

And that was it. That was the confirmation she needed.

Jasmine stared out past the fog, out at the miles and miles of dark desert that lay beyond her kingdom. Men would die in that desert, she realized. Armies would march across that sand. They would fight in that sand. They would die in that sand.

She cleared her throat. "Prepare your army and the fleet. Suspend all further communication with Shirabad."

No questions followed and she knew Hakim understood. She heard him start towards the stairs.

"Hakim."

The boots stopped. She turned, letting Hakim see the wretchedness of her face. He returned her stare with utmost concern, as if he was willing to die for her right then and there. She turned back towards the desert, into the dark abyss of sand on the horizon.

"Execute the prisoners," she said softly.

* * *

Dalia could feel the change in Agrabah the moment she stepped foot off the boat.

At that hour, Agrabah was normally a busy place, filled with traders, musicians, and street performers. People were haggling and bargaining and arguing with one another all day and night. The energy itself was a living, breathing entity.

And now…silence. Just silence.

She took her husband's hand and made her way down the wooden port, shocked by the atmosphere. The harbor—once bustling with incoming trade ships and merchants—was now abandoned of all activity. Ships sat chained at their ports, their sails sifting lifelessly in the wind. Even the skies were bare: not a single seagull flew overhead. The lone longshoreman looked up at them as they passed and grimly said: "Welcome to Agrabah."

They were escorted to the palace by a squad of guards. Dalia pulled back the curtain of the carriage and overlooked a nearby marketplace. That one in particular had always been crammed; there was hardly enough room for all the vendors selling food and beads and fine silks. Now, there were only half a dozen at most, with little to no customers in sight. The windows of homes were shut and locked up overhead.

Her husband joined her at the window and made a disapproving noise. "Some industrious city, huh?"

"Oh, hush," she scolded. "You know what happened here."

She wished she could have been there when it happened, that she was there for Jasmine. How terrifying it must have been to watch both her father and husband poisoned—the poison meant for her. In all the years Dalia had lived with Jasmine in the palace, she had never seen an assassination attempt on anyone of the royal family. Agrabah was simply not the place where such things happened.

After they passed the palace walls, Dalia caught sight of Jasmine standing at the top of the steps with her hands interlocked. She wore a long black gown that ran down her arms and down past her feet. Her hair was braided and let loose at the base, while a silver head pendant held it all in place at her forehead. She looked ethereal and empty all at the same time.

Dalia did her best to hurry up the stairs to her. They immediately embraced and Dalia was struck by how fragile Jasmine felt in her arms, like a small bird with broken wings. "Oh, my love. I'm so sorry."

Jasmine nodded against her cheek, and Dalia stepped back and gripped her hands. Jasmine's eyes had deep grey circles beneath them—the stress of holding together a kingdom while on the verge of internal collapse. The new woman Sultan—once so lively and kind—had been robbed of her light in the cruelest way.

"I'm so glad you're safe," said Dalia.

Jasmine gave her a faint smile, though it clearly required effort. "You're bigger," she said, motioning down.

"Every day." Dalia laid a protective hand over her stomach. The child would be due in a few months' time. Lindy, if it was a girl. Barro, for a boy.

Her husband came up behind her and gave Jasmine an equally amicable greeting. He wrapped his arm around Dalia's shoulders, holding her close.

"How's Aladdin?" he had to ask.

Jasmine's expression fell. Dalia drew in a sharp breath, suddenly worried she hadn't received the most recent news. Last she heard, Aladdin had been poisoned but survived miraculously. Perhaps he hadn't recovered after all.

"He's…better," Jasmine finally said.

"Praise Allah!" said Dalia. "Can we go see him?"

Jasmine paused again, grimacing. "Actually, Dalia…do you mind if I talk to your husband in private?"

* * *

The Genie made himself comfortable on the yellow-silk cushions in the sultan's study room. The walls were gold and lined with exquisite pottery and sculptures, and a detailed clay model of Agrabah sat high on a mahogany table, exactly the way the former sultan left it. The room was mostly windowless, save for the small narrow stained-glass window that obscured the sunlight outside into greens and oranges. Jasmine stood beside it, overlooking the city while lost in a sea of thoughts.

The Genie decided he should wait for her to speak first. He could only imagine what she needed from him, why she needed to talk to him without an audience. What could the Sultan need of him now—a humble mariner—that she couldn't get from Dalia?

Fortunately, Jasmine did not make him wait long. She turned from the window and offered him a small smile. "I'm glad you two are here. It's been…difficult."

The Genie smiled back. "I know. But don't you worry. Aladdin's a fighter, you know—and I got a feeling. He'll kick that fever's ass."

Jasmine's smile flattened politely. He cursed himself for making jokes when the sultan was clearly in a state of anguish.

"How much have you heard?" she asked him.

"Well…we heard about Aladdin and your father back in the Abbas." The Genie scratched his head. "And then we heard something about Shirabad being behind it. Terrible stuff."

"We've been at war with them for three days." Jasmine slowly crossed the floor to her desk, running her fingers along the polished wood. "They've burned fifty of our ships and killed almost a hundred of our soldiers. Many have been taken as prisoners." She swallowed, hard. "My people quiver in their homes because Shirabad is coming straight for the city next. And all the while…I've had to plan my father's funeral and prepare for Aladdin's because he just won't wake up."

The Genie sat there at a complete loss for words. It felt like all the air had left his chest and he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Jasmine looked at him and inclined her head.

"I didn't want to upset Dalia," she explained softly.

"Jasmine, I…"

He couldn't finish. How could he? All those hours traveling back to Agrabah, and he had no idea that the situation with Shirabad was so dire.

Her eyes went glassy. "I don't know what I can do anymore." She aimlessly shrugged. "I've heard my own guards talk about their wives buying vials of poison for their children so they won't have to face Shirabad when they come…"

She swiveled away, and the Genie heard her trying to repress a sob. "I'm sorry," she told him. "Tears come so easily now."

He stood abruptly. "How can I help you? Tell me."

She took several more breaths, trying to keep her voice composed. "You know I wouldn't ask this unless I had any other option. But…" She turned around. "I need your magic. I need you to use it to protect my people. If the Shirabad prince gets ahold of us… we don't stand a chance."

Her words made the Genie sick to his core. What was even more sickening was the fact that he knew he could not give her what she so desperately wanted.

"Jasmine," he said, "I'm powerless."

Her eyes closed. He continued, "When Aladdin set me free, I returned to the exact state I was in before I became a genie. I can't do anything anymore."

To his surprise, she just nodded. She pulled back her long black sleeves to brush away the tears. "I understand."

"But I'm still here to help in any way that I can," he said. "Dalia too. You won't be facing this alone."

Unfortunately, he could tell his words weren't comforting enough. She continued dabbing at her eyes. "Do you know of anything that could help my people?"

The Genie considered. He remembered his previous masters when he was a prisoner to the lamp, how they talked of other mythical artifacts they wanted to get their hands on after they were done with him. A fountain of youth, they said. A resurrection stone. A gateway to the afterlife. So many gadgets with so little information on where to find them.

"Magic," he finally said.

"Where, though? Where can I find magic?"

He sighed. "I don't know. It's not easy. It can take centuries to uncover."

The same had happened with him. If Aladdin had not picked up his lamp in the Cave of Wonders, he would still be stuck in that lamp, stuck in that brass prison without a chance at life and romance and fatherhood. He shuddered thinking about the possibility.

"You were a genie once," said Jasmine. "Are there not others?"

The Genie looked back at her, realizing he knew the answer after all. His jaw went rigid. "There's only one other genie that I know of," he told her, "and you know him, too."

Jasmine frowned. After a moment, she stepped back—finally understanding.

"No," she said.

The Genie shrugged helplessly. "I threw him back in the Cave of Wonders, so I know where he is at least."

She returned to the stained-glass window, her back to him. "Jafar wouldn't help us."

"You think I wanted to help all the grubby hands that rubbed my lamp?" He shook his head. "Genies don't get that choice. You rub the lamp—you're the master and he's the slave."

Jasmine didn't speak. Her mind seemed to be a thousand miles away, and the Genie couldn't blame her. It had only been a year since the crazed, power-hungry vizier was tricked and flung out far into the desert. The Genie remembered that brief moment in time when the vizier had power, had the potential to wreak havoc on the world. And given Jasmine's history with the man, it didn't surprise him that she would hesitate to uncover a possibly very vengeful man.

But the Genie remembered his thousands of years in the service and how powerless he actually was. Jafar would have no choice but to obey Jasmine if she found the lamp, no matter the bad blood between them.

At the window, he heard Jasmine take in a deep breath.

"And he must grant me three wishes," she said idly.

"All three wishes," he said back.

Jasmine removed herself from the window, the horror and bitterness ebbing from her face. She smiled faintly. "I've kept you long enough. Thank you again for your council."

"Not at all," he said, standing again. "It'll be okay, Jasmine. We're here for you."

She nodded politely, his signal to be dismissed. He headed back down the hallway and wondered how in the world he was going to relay this information to his very emotional, pregnant wife. It wasn't going to be easy, but at least he had helped the sultan in some way.

At least he hoped.

* * *

In the dim light, Jasmine made her way to Aladdin's bedside in the infirmary, the air thick with the scent of candle wax and eucalyptus. Aladdin was in the same position she left him: on his back with his arms at his sides. Beneath the wet rags, his skin was pasty and bone-white. She reached out and touched his hand, and his skin burned.

Would he approve of her options if he were awake, she wondered. Likely not. Anything would be preferable to rousing the beast from his lamp. She still remembered the tornado born from Jafar's fingers that day, how it fished them from the sky and had them tumbling back towards the palace. She remembered being lifted from the ground, hovering in the sky like a puppet while the smoke enveloped him, spitting red sparks, and him monstrously rising out of the flames—

No. Aladdin wouldn't approve.

Jasmine sat down and gently stroked his face. He made no response.

She felt nauseous at the thought of him never waking up again—Aladdin—her sun, her happiness, her life. She'd lost so many people already that she simply couldn't live without him. She would surely shatter completely.

Besides, the stakes transcended Aladdin now. Her people were also on the line. Thousands and thousands of Agrabah citizens, all facing slavery and slaughter at the hands of Shirabad if she did nothing. Her father said it himself before he died: she was the Sultan now and she had to protect them at all cost.

Jasmine slowly leaned over Aladdin and kissed his cheek, hoping somehow within his tortured illness that he'd felt it. _I have to do this_, she reasoned to him in her head. _I have to save you and my people. I'm sorry. Forgive me._

With that, she let go of his hand and left the infirmary.

Hakim came later to her chambers for instruction. She explained that she had found a way to save the people of Agrabah, and to do so required taking a trip. Until she returned, Hakim would be in charge of all militia plans and would be the acting-Sultan during her absence. He pressed her again and again on what the details were to this grand plan, but she decided against telling him, knowing she couldn't have another person try and talk her out of it when she herself was already on the verge of dismantling it. The Genie agreed to travel with her and a few guards at daybreak, knowing he could lead her to the right location. Dalia would stay at the palace under her protection.

Jasmine dismissed her handmaidens early into the night, leaving her to draw the curtains of her bedchamber herself. Before she closed the last one, she looked out towards the desert beyond—the same endless abyss she had stared at for hours on the highest balcony. It had felt so vast and cold in the dark, void of all life. And yet looking at it now felt different, like there was a presence out there, lurking somewhere in the sand. Something alive that pulsed and called out to her and whispered her name…

She abruptly closed the curtain, ignoring the shiver that ran down her spine.

No, she told herself.

This time, she would not let him get under her skin.

* * *

X


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.**

* * *

Jasmine stood at her father's tomb as the sky bled purple. Clouds sprawled around the coastline like a noose, gathering for the coming sunrise. The little light in the sky climbed the roof of the tomb and fell at the tented apex, surrounded by a gate of intricately-crafted redwood.

All night, she had clawed at her brain for another solution to end the war with Shirabad without turning to her greatest enemy, but nothing surfaced, nothing that could guarantee the safety of Agrabah the way the lamp could. The thought of even standing in front of Jafar again humiliated her; she had never once asked him for help in her life, and she didn't want to start now, particularly since he was always an adamant believer in destroying Shirabad. Now that they had taken arms against her, he would probably laugh at her and her situation.

But it wasn't about her anymore. She remembered her father's words.

_Being the Sultan doesn't always mean keeping the peace_. _It means protecting the people._

First, the Agrabah traders. Then her father and husband. Then hundreds of soldiers, fighting and dying to protect the people. And she—the Sultan, the most powerful person in the city—could not protect any of them.

She simply had no choice. It had to be him.

Out into the horizon, the sun broke above the surface. Time was up.

Shortly after, a small group of men found her, the Genie among them, and asked if she was ready to depart. She looked one last time at her father's tomb, wishing there was some way he could reach out and restrain her from what she was about to do.

But no answer came. Only a gentle whisper of wind.

She was alone.

Inhaling sharply, she fixed her hood over her head and turned to follow the soldiers.

* * *

Carpet was able to accommodate four people: Jasmine, the Genie, and two palace guards for protection. Even though Jasmine was used to Carpet whipping her across the air in a frenzied turbulence, she was nevertheless grateful that he decided to cruise unhurriedly for the sake of his new passengers. She was already on the verge of vomiting.

Below her, the sea of sand lay smooth and unbroken, the sun's heat closing in from all directions. The Genie remained leaning over the edge, locked in a deep concentration. She wondered how he could distinguish this mysterious Cave of Wonders in such an endless landscape, especially since the cave was hidden from view and could only be uncovered by a secret spell. How could they find something that didn't want to be found?

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Genie held up his hand. "Stop here."

Everyone leaned over. There was a crevice in the land, split open and walled by sand and rock, but visually undistinguishable.

"This is just another sand dune!" said a guard behind her.

"No, this is it."

Jasmine nodded her approval and Carpet descended down into the crevice. The Genie jumped off early and hit the sand like a seasoned mariner, standing tall in his multicolored turban and belt. He then held up his hands and repeated a foreign chant to the wall of sand, and suddenly the ground began to shake beneath them.

Jasmine gripped Carpet as the guards struggled to keep upright. The wall slowly began to change, the cliff breaking into a round surface, a head—while the bottom half fell away underneath a set of formidable fangs. The sand grew and shrunk until she made out a snout, a nose, a mane, and eyes—eyes that burned red in the sunlight. Her blood ran cold as a growl erupted from the lungs of the cave.

"_Only one may enter here, one whose worth lies far within. A diamond in the rough."_

The guards drew their swords, but the Genie didn't seem at all intimidated. "Good to see you too, ol' Leo boy."

Jasmine slowly released Carpet. "The diamond in the rough?"

"Yes." The Genie turned to her. "However…this diamond in the rough was a little too ill for the road."

She stared at him, suddenly understanding.

"Aladdin?"

He nodded gravely. Jasmine opened her mouth, realizing how Aladdin got the Genie's lamp in the first place. He was the diamond in the rough. "But how can any of us enter if it only allows Aladdin?"

"Look, I know you're not exactly the diamond in the rough—you're more just the diamond, but the cave has powers and can sense when someone has good morals. Here's what we're going to do." The Genie wiped his hands as he approached her. "I'm going to say a spell that should give you a one-time pass. If the cave deems you worthy—and it should since you're doing it to save your people—it will let you enter."

"It will?" said Jasmine.

The Genie grimaced. "Fifty one percent sure."

Jasmine swallowed with difficulty. A guard immediately stepped forward. "Let me go, my Sultan. It's too dangerous—"

"No," said the Genie, "it must be her."

"Agrabah will fall if she dies!"

Jasmine held up a hand, rendering them silent. Every part of her screamed not to do this, not to enter that terrifying cave that held something even more terrifying within, but she knew it was far too late to turn back and she couldn't allow another Agrabah soldier to risk his life for her.

Jasmine looked up at the three of them. "It will fall if I don't take this chance," she said, steeling her shoulders to the Genie. "The spell, please."

Both guards bowed their heads. The Genie came closer and chanted another foreign phrase, moving his hands in the air like a magician. Once he finished, a gust of wind flew from the mouth of the cave and fizzled out with a deep groan. For a split moment, the red eyes of the cave glowed gold.

The Genie's shoulders relaxed. "I think you're good," he told her.

Her heart began to race in her ribcage, a terrified thrumming as she stared into the cave's dark, suffocating throat. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. For Agrabah, she thought. For Agrabah.

Somehow, the thought gave her the strength to move forward.

"Jasmine."

She stopped and turned back. "Only the lamp," the Genie reminded her.

Nodding, she continued on. A gentle weight fell on her shoulders and fringes tickled her cheek. It was Carpet, holding her like a cloak. The feel of his company gave Jasmine a surge of confidence to continue moving even when the cave's shadow enveloped her whole. The journey inside didn't look too difficult, she observed. Just a narrow passageway that descended—

Suddenly, a hissing noise. Jasmine looked to her left and saw the sand on the walls slipping, falling. And then the rock beneath her feet, slipping, falling—no—!

She screamed as she plummeted straight down into the heart of the cave.

* * *

Jasmine landed unceremoniously on her back in a billow of dust. She turned over on her side, coughing up the sand she'd inhaled on the way down. Carpet stood on his tassels and wrung himself clean before helping her to her feet.

Up through the murky dust, she could see a small circle of light above her—the entrance to the cave.

She couldn't believe it. She survived.

The cave had given her a pass.

A tassel wrapped around her wrist and pulled her towards a set of boulders descending like stairs down to the base of the cave: narrow, steep, and rail-less. No doubt Aladdin would have easily managed the journey due to his street life origins, but Jasmine could scarcely look at the boulders without feeling vertigo. Another tug came at her wrist, and she realized Carpet was actually insinuating that she ride him instead of making the journey herself.

"Thanks," she told him, steadying herself onto his back.

Carpet whooshed them down into a walled crevice that forced her to duck around and against the rocks. As soon as the walls cleared, Jasmine was left speechless. Before her was mounds and mounds of treasure—diamonds, emeralds, rubies. Ornate chests overflowed with gold coins, necklaces, and helmets—glinting spotlessly from every direction. As the royal princess, Jasmine had been spoiled with all sorts of riches throughout her life, but she had never seen so much of it in one place.

She became strangely aware of how much the treasure entranced her, how it made her want to reach out and touch it. If she had even two handfuls of that exquisite jewelry, she could probably bargain for Agrabah's safety with the Shirabad king—

Carpet dipped beneath her, shaking her out of her reverie. She blinked several times.

"Right," she said. "Where's the lamp?"

He pointed his tassel urgently towards the steepest rock in the cave. Jasmine let Carpet fly them to the top, but nothing was found when they reached it: just a clean rock surface.

Carpet scratched his head with his fringes, clearly not understanding. That must have been where the cave originally kept the Genie's lamp, Jasmine deduced. Frustrated, Carpet returned her to the ground and paced back and forth in his tasseled feet.

Jasmine turned, hearing a low droning coming from her left, past the treasure from the darkest corners of the cave. At first it sounded like the same deep voice from the lion head, but it didn't sound human.

"Do you hear that?" she asked Carpet.

Apparently, he didn't—or didn't care, since he continued pacing.

The droning continued. It was quiet at first, building up slowly. Then it grew louder, becoming clearer and clearer until—

It was inside her.

Music. Melodious music, slow and hypnotic.

Her body slackened, her blood growing warm in her veins—a comforting, gentle heat. Her limbs bowed and her spine caved, yielding to the strange unearthly sensation. She released the breath she held in and turned fully towards the music's direction.

She walked forward.

Behind her, she heard the whooshing noise of Carpet, but couldn't find the strength or will to look at him. All she knew was the music—that she felt like was bound to it, that she had to obey it and follow it at all cost.

Carpet jumped in her way and pointed behind her, perhaps figuring out a place for them to check for the lamp. Gently but firmly, Jasmine pushed him aside and continued on. He didn't know anything, that silly rug. She knew. She knew.

The music reached its peak when she came upon a mound of dirt—the end of the cave. The notes danced and sang in her body, her bones vibrated and trembled, almost unsure, almost desperate, as if they couldn't be still.

Without much control, she reached out a hand and cleaved away a handful of dirt. It fell behind her, a scattered mess. She reached again and pulled more. Then more. Then more. Her hands, once pedicured and lovely, were gladly savaged, the dirt filling up her fingernails. She didn't care. She kept digging and digging, feeling the sensation double, triple in her body—

She could hear Carpet's desperate attempts at getting her attention behind her, clearly worried and alarmed by her actions. But she couldn't explain it to him. She just knew. She knew.

In the middle of the digging, her hand caught something cold and metal.

The music stopped.

Stilling her breath, Jasmine dug back for it. She wrapped her fingers around the spout and pulled until a clean black lamp surfaced, dirt scurrying off the sides.

She balanced it with both hands.

The lamp. _His_ lamp.

She found it.

Within the dark confines, a streak of red light shivered through, aroused and alive.

* * *

The Genie and the two guards were sitting in the sand when she exited the cave on Carpet. They instantly scrambled to their feet and dusted the sand from their trousers, and Jasmine accepted the guard's hand when he offered to help her down. She could still feel her heartbeat in her ears, a dull throbbing.

The Genie spread his arms. "Well?"

Numbly, Jasmine opened her cloak, revealing the lamp in her other hand. The Genie flinched, his jaw visibly rigid.

"That easy, huh?" he said.

The ground began to shake as the cave behind her collapsed. Sand melted off the lion head until there was nothing left—just the sheer rock cliff that had been there before. Jasmine turned back to her companions.

"I think that was the easy part," she told them.

The Genie explained the instructions to her: the limitations of the wishes, the obligations of the genie, and the rule that she had to be rubbing the lamp if she wanted to make a wish. He took her by the shoulders and steadied her encouragingly.

"Remember," said the Genie, "he can't hurt you. Don't be afraid."

Jasmine forced a nod, feeling her palms sweat profusely. She couldn't waste any more time. Aladdin was dying. Her people were dying. It was now or never.

Fighting all hesitations, Jasmine held up the lamp and rubbed both sides.

Immediately, the lamp grew hot in her grasp. Something hissed and smoke started spilling and spilling from the spout in great black plumes. It grew hotter, faster, until the smoke was nearly fifty feet tall. Jasmine's blood ran cold as she made out a figure forming within the smoke—tall, muscled, and monstrously red—stretching and contorting in its new surroundings.

She stumbled backwards, struggling to keep her grip on the lamp.

The figure slowly began to shrink, shrinking down to a normal human height until Jasmine could see a tall, dark outline of a man. There was a cloak forming on the man's shoulders too—a ripple of reds, golds, blacks. Something small suddenly bulleted from the smoke, nearly hitting her, and the sound of desperate, flapping wings followed.

The parrot. "Master is free," it squawked into the sky. "Master is free."

The smoke cleared, leaving behind a man in a brilliant red robe and turban, sparks of fire clutching at the ends. The man lifted his head, inhaling, relishing the newfound freedom, and opened his eyes—a burning gold—gold like the chains on his wrists.

Her entire body filled with regret.

_What had she done?_

Jafar swept a long look over his visitors, his face calm and indifferent. Everything about him seemed the same, Jasmine noticed—the hair, the clothes, the beard. The only difference was the power that simmered in him like a flame, making him more dangerous than ever before. Both of the guards brandished their swords and stepped in front of Jasmine as a means of protection—as if the steel could somehow ward off a being of infinite cosmic power.

Jafar smoothly crossed his arms together, his sleeves rippling with red-coal sparks. His face twisted into what Jasmine knew as his signature sneer. "If it isn't the very people who imprisoned me," he said, his voice delicately condescending.

Everyone stayed quiet, too stunned to speak. Jafar looked them over again. "Although…there seems to be one missing from your entourage."

His eyes locked with hers and Jasmine's stomach plummeted. He smiled.

"Fallen sick, has he?"

The Genie came forward, coming to her rescue. "You're here for one purpose and one purpose only—and that's to serve the Sultan."

"Sultan?" said Jafar.

They met eyes again and Jasmine could feel the contempt dripping off of him like candle wax. Jafar shook his head. "My, how the world has regressed in my absence."

Anger flitted through her. She grabbed the lamp and started rubbing it aggressively. "I wish for my husband Aladdin to be healed of his illness and restored to full health," she spoke clear and true, not wanting Jafar to waste her time with insults.

He bowed mockingly. "As you wish, princess," he said, snapping his fingers.

"Sultan," she bit out.

He smiled again. "Then perhaps, great Sultan, you'd like to use your second wish for a quick return to Agrabah given the fleet of Shirabad ships heading for your coastlines."

One of the guards bared his teeth. "He's lying."

"Am I?" said Jafar. "Strange, isn't it—how fast a city can fall when it lacks the proper leadership."

Jasmine could hardly believe his nerve. "You would've turned Agrabah into a warzone."

"And under whose rule is Agrabah a warzone now?" he challenged, sparks following his every step. "Shirabad never would have had a chance to invade as they would've been annihilated immediately. Agrabah would be safe."

"Agrabah will be safe," she insisted, rubbing the lamp again. "I wish for diplomatic peace between the city of Agrabah and the city of Shirabad."

Jafar pursued his lips. "As my princess commands," he said, snapping his fingers.

Jasmine glowered at him but held her tongue. She shouldn't have expected anything different from him: all her life he had been nothing short of patronizing. She refused to behave the way he wanted her to—always feeding into his game and arguing back. She wasn't a princess anymore—she was the Sultan. And she wouldn't let him get to her.

"I order you back into your lamp," she said, and was more than happy to see him disappear into a plume of smoke.

* * *

It was difficult for Jasmine to fathom her newly acquired peace on the journey back to Agrabah. All those nights she'd cried herself to sleep, all those nights feeling helpless and insignificant in the face of war—all of those worries were over in a single trip. She saved everyone. She was free.

Jasmine closed her eyes, letting the wind caress her face. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to relax, to feel at peace. Worrying over everyone had certainly taken its mental and physical toll, and she was relieved to know Aladdin and her people were going to be alive and well when she returned.

She steadied one hand on Carpet and the other on Jafar's lamp underneath her cloak. As aggravating as it was confronting him again, she admitted that the benefits far outweighed the risks. Her only regret was that she didn't seek Jafar out sooner for the sake of her father—oh, how ignorant she was that morning at the breakfast table. If she'd only taken the threat seriously after the trade post incident, she might have saved her father too.

But no matter. Jasmine still had one more wish and there were plenty of other political concerns to attend to. She would consult with Hakim on a proper strategy to snuffing out all future threats towards Agrabah, wish for it, and then discard of Jafar's lamp the moment she was finished.

The sun was setting as Agrabah came into view, the sky awash in orange light. It looked beautiful from her vantage point: the multicolored-brick buildings, the strong palace towers, the harbor filled with ships—

Wait. Ships at that hour?

Jasmine leaned forward, frowning. Those weren't just ships—it was an entire fleet, filling the ocean in rows, their sails billowing red and white—

Red and white. Shirabad colors.

Jasmine paled.

"Whose ships are those?" she demanded.

The guards leaned around her. "It can't be…" one was saying.

The Genie shrugged. "Maybe they're here for a diplomatic dinner?"

"An entire fleet?" balked the guard.

"You never know—"

"Carpet," said Jasmine. "Get us to the palace—fast."

_Jafar_. He didn't grant her wish, the bastard. He didn't grant her wish!

The rug soared as fast as he could without throwing his passengers off. He parked next to the closest balcony and Jasmine unabashedly leapt off, nearly landing on all fours. Palace guards were running down the hallways in formation—a clear indicator of an impending attack.

"Find Hakim and bring him to me," she ordered the two guards. As they ran off, she threw a look back at the Genie. "Find Dalia and get as far away from here as you can. Carpet will take you."

Carpet clutched onto the Genie's back like he did when he followed her into the cave. The Genie looked utterly forlorn. "Jasmine… the wishes. I don't understand. Jafar is bound to obey the wishes—"

"I know," she said. "I'll take care of it. But in case I don't—you two need to be far away from the crossfire."

He nodded reluctantly and hurried down the hallway through groups of running guards. Jasmine wasted no time meeting up with Hakim, who looked notably distressed since their last encounter. "My Sultan—Shirabad will attack tonight. They've been blockading our imports from the Abbas."

Jasmine shook her head, her mind scrambling.

"We have civilians at the gates," Hakim went on, "mothers and children requesting protection inside the palace—"

"Let them inside."

"But the royal family—"

"Let them inside," Jasmine repeated. "My life isn't worth more than my people. Let them in and protect them."

"Yes, my Sultan." Hakim turned and left.

Jasmine found herself running down the steps of the infirmary, her cloak billowing after her. If Jafar didn't grant the Shirabad wish, he must not have granted the one for Aladdin.

Sure enough, she found him on his same cot—still asleep with his arms at his sides and no sign of recovery. Angry tears brimmed her eyes as her knees hit the floor, so frustrated that she could scream. Growling, Jasmine tore open her cloak for the lamp and was anything but gentle when rousing the genie within.

Black plumes of smoke filled the room. Jafar reappeared in his normal height, sparks of fire running down his red robe. He smirked as the smoke cleared, seemingly unsurprised to see her again so soon.

She glared at him. "Grant my two wishes. Now."

"And so I did, princess," he said.

"Then why is my kingdom under attack?"

Jafar cast a look in Aladdin's direction on the cot. "You wished for diplomatic peace between the two regions and your husband's recovery." He turned back to her. "How long, I'm afraid, wasn't specified and I was forced to use my own assumptions."

Jasmine felt an overwhelming urge to strangle him. "You want Agrabah to fall."

"No. Spilt blood is wasteful. Agrabah will be safe again." He slowly advanced on her, making it difficult for her to stand still and hold her ground. "It will be safe…once you wish me free and I return to my rightful place as Sultan."

Jasmine openly scoffed at his delusion. "That will never happen."

His lips twisted up. "Still so defiant. Tell me, princess—how much blood do you expect your people to spill for your shortcomings? They deserve someone of power to protect them."

"I have power."

"Do you? Then why did you come to me?"

Jasmine felt it burn in her then, the humiliation—the humiliation she feared she'd feel. She couldn't stand to look at him now, to look into his eyes that gleamed with such derision. Biting the inside of her cheek, she battled down all her violent emotions and muttered: "Keep your wishes, then. I'll save Agrabah without your help."

Smoke began to summon Jafar back into the lamp. As it swirled around his torso, he smiled and held up his arms, revealing his golden chains.

"Until you make your final wish," he told her, "I belong to you."

* * *

X


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.**

* * *

Agrabah soldiers ran in fours down to the base of the palace while holding spears and wearing war helmets. Everyone was talking over one another in the cramped room: Hakim discussing battle plans with his guardsmen, children crying in their mothers' bosoms, fathers trying to get some semblance of where they were going. The war was well underway.

Looking out from a small palace balcony, Jasmine watched Carpet reemerge from the clouds. He had been making trips back and forth to the Abbas, carrying four people at a time to the safety of a new land after exporting Dalia and the Genie. So far, Jasmine had overseen the transportation of over fifty Agrabah families, but there were still over a hundred left in the room and time was running out.

Carpet parked at his normal spot and the next family stepped forward: a mother, father, infant, and small boy. Jasmine placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Don't be afraid," she told him. "The ride will be easy."

"I don't want to fall," the boy whimpered.

"You won't. You have nothing to fear—I promise."

The father took over and steered his son ahead, nodding to her. "My Sultan."

Jasmine smiled bleakly. The praise didn't feel deserved. It was her fault they had to leave their home behind. It was her fault she'd wasted time looking for Jafar's lamp and trusting him when she should've been exporting families from the city. And while she did still have one final wish—one more chance to stop Shirabad—she knew she couldn't trust Jafar to honor it.

Carpet whooshed them off into the air, leaving Jasmine standing in a gust of wind. Her hair was braided and out of her face, and she wore a simple black top and harem pants. Strapped to her torso was a great brass breastplate with an emblem of the Agrabah Sultan. Even though it felt clunky and restrictive on her body, it made her feel as strong and able as her palace guards.

The next family shuffled forward until a pair of healers holding a stretcher hurried up to her. "My Sultan, your husband is ready for transport," said one as she revealed Aladdin's pale face underneath the sheet.

Jasmine grimaced. "Thank you."

The family backed off, permitting the Sultan's husband to cut in line. Jasmine reached down and ran her fingers down his cheek, her dear Aladdin still battling the poison. She knew he wanted to be awake for her, to help her win this war, but at least this way guaranteed his safety.

Carpet returned ten minutes later. Jasmine helped the healers balance Aladdin on while they sat on either side of him. Abu swung onto Aladdin's stomach from the healer's shoulders and chirped anxiously once he and Jasmine met eyes. As Carpet swept back into the sky, Jasmine felt a piece of her heart leave with them.

Suddenly, a gasping guard wrenched open the doors and ran up to her. "My Sultan—the messenger… the messenger you sent to the Shirabad prince…he…my troops spotted him behind enemy lines with a spear in his back…"

Jasmine's stomach dropped. Hakim came up behind her. "Are you certain?" he asked.

"I'm certain, captain."

Hakim shook his head. "Then it appears he has refused all offers of negotiation."

"He can't want hundreds of people dead," she reasoned.

Neither man could answer. "Dismissed," Hakim told the guard and pulled Jasmine aside. "My Sultan, I think it's best if you were on the next ride. My guards can oversee the people."

Jasmine gaped at him. "And leave Agrabah on the brink of war?"

"For your safety, yes." Hakim's eyes were big and imploring. "You don't belong on the battlefield."

"Neither do my people, Hakim."

He sighed. "As I said, we will oversee the rest." He grabbed a cloak from one of his soldiers and handed it to her. "Take this. You must disguise yourself in the new land—"

She swatted it away. "I'm not running, Hakim. Sultans do not run from their enemies."

"We need you alive."

"We need to win this war. And you won't without me."

Hakim sighed again, surrendering. Jasmine knew it was in her favor that he didn't have the time to argue with her. He reached down into his belt sash and pulled out a small hidden knife, flipping it so that the handle was facing her. She suddenly realized his intentions.

"I can't."

"You must," he insisted. "This is war."

Jasmine took a deep breath and forced herself to accept the hilt. It felt so foreign in her hands: a weapon. She had read countless war stories and expeditions growing up, but she never thought she would wield something like this herself.

Hakim gripped her arm. "Use it if you need to. Don't be afraid to kill. Fight for your life. Promise me." Jasmine nodded, but he urged. "Promise me!"

"I promise," she said.

Hakim released her, his eyebrows still knitted in concern, and started out the door with his troops. As Jasmine watched him go, she was suddenly overwhelmed by his loyalty to her, his love for her and for Agrabah, and she realized that she had never really been alone after all.

"Hakim."

He turned around. She did her best to smile. "Thank you."

He pressed his fist to his breastplate. "My Sultan," he said, and disappeared in the sea of departing soldiers.

Jasmine composed herself and returned to the balcony to help the families. She searched her clothing for a good place to hide the knife and finally found a secure spot within her cloak. Once she tucked it in, her fingers brushed against something cold.

_The lamp_.

Right.

Jasmine immediately dismissed herself to her chambers. If the battle reached the palace and her specifically, she needed to do everything in her power to keep Jafar's lamp from Shirabad clutches. And she knew just the spot.

Upon arriving, she shut her chamber door behind her and hurried to the closest bookshelf. She put her finger on the fifth book from the left, the top row, and dipped it so that it faced up. Something clinked and unlocked, and when she shoved the bookshelf to the left, a globe-sized hole was revealed in the wall. Her and Dalia always used to sneak snacks into the hole to eat overnight; it was the perfect place to hide things from anyone—even the former sultan. No one else knew of its existence.

She removed the lamp from her cloak and steadily placed it inside. Even if Shirabad was successful in invading Agrabah and killing her, the knowledge of the lamp's hiding place would die with her.

Huffing, she leaned all of her weight on the bookshelf to push it back in place. While she did, a shadow fell over her and something small and red landed on her balcony railing, its wings rustling closed.

Jafar's parrot.

Jasmine couldn't help but glare at it; no doubt it was there to intercept the lamp. She held its curious stare even as she finished moving the bookshelf back in place.

"Just try," she muttered. "Even you aren't that clever."

The parrot didn't respond. Instead, it opened its wings and took off, squawking, "Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

Suddenly, another shadow fell over the room, much greater than the one before, and Jasmine was viscously knocked into the wall as a crash rocked through the entire palace.

* * *

"Hold the gates!"

"_Hold the gates_!"

Hakim was still staring up at the palace, up at where a Shirabad trebuchet catapult had launched and buried a fireball into the second story. All of the generals and guards among him were screaming and shouting, but he couldn't tear himself away from the horrifying realization that he had left his Sultan in that very room just minutes before.

He could hardly breathe.

"Captain!" a man shouted directly in his ear. "Orders!"

Hakim turned back, disoriented, to face the gates. There was a great pounding behind them—Shirabad soldiers trying to infiltrate the palace. Many Agrabah men looked up at him for direction.

He swallowed, mustering every bit of strength he could to focus.

"Hold, men!" he said. "Hold!"

More guards rushed to help barricade the tall gates, but the wood was splintering, breaking. Letting out a shaky breath, Hakim reached into his belt and drew his sword. On his life, he would protect Agrabah and his Sultan. If Shirabad wanted Jasmine, every single one of them would have to go through him.

The other soldiers followed his lead, the ringing of steel filling the courtyard. Among him were about a hundred men, all armed and ready to die to protect the civilians inside. Hakim thought of his father in the fields when he was a boy and the sound of his sickle against a hundred wheat stems. Only this time, for Hakim, it would be bodies.

Hakim heard a whooshing noise above him, up into the night, and then—

Crash.

Everyone stumbled in different directions. Hakim looked back up at the palace.

Another catapult fireball into the fourth story. Smoke glugged and glugged out of the palace roofs, obscuring the moon and stars above.

Behind him, the gates cracked open.

Shirabad men wearing red spilled and spilled from the opening, brandishing their swords and screaming war cries. Every Agrabah soldier was suddenly rushed by ten, twenty men—the air filled with smoke and the clashing of swords. Hakim stood astounded at the steps, the realization of their inevitable death hitting him in seconds.

Three Shirabad soldiers broke from the front line and clawed their way to the steps. Hakim stepped forward and met them mid-strike. The first fell, a sword to his chest. The second, to the shoulder. The third had Hakim in a headlock from behind. Using all of his force, Hakim broke away and decapitated the man.

He had no time to process his victory. More and more Shirabad soldiers were overwhelming him, all breaking free from the front line and Hakim was blinded by rushing armored figures.

Hakim felt something sharp sink into his side. He fell backwards, his sword knocked out of his grasp. He looked up at the sky and saw one star through the smoke and chaos—a little white light—and he thought of his father and the sickle and Jasmine.

He closed his eyes and breathed a small apology.

Someone gripped him by the head, securing him in place. The last thing he heard was the slicing sound of metal against his throat.

* * *

Jasmine weakly opened her eyes.

_Pain_.

So much pain.

When she lifted her head, she was on the floor. Smoke filled her nostrils and she was covered head to toe in ash and soot. Every joint in her body screamed as she steadied herself up on her elbows. Her head—oh, her head—was pounding, and something warm and wet was sliding down from her hair to her chin. She gently touched her face and her fingertips met blood.

She looked up.

The last place she remembered being was in her chambers. Now she could hardly distinguish where she was in the palace: half the floor in front of her was gone.

_Her home_.

Ceilings above her were slanted and caved in, flames licking at the cracks. The floors were riddled in rubble, dust, and ash; decorative tapestries and glass vials were in fragments. Jasmine saw an arm sticking out from underneath a fallen chunk of ceiling, the hand open and lifeless.

_Her people_.

Crying out, Jasmine pushed herself onto her feet and adjusted her breastplate. She needed to find them, wherever they were. They couldn't possibly be…

Jasmine ducked through the broken hallway, through shrouds of smoke and dust, searching for someone, anyone. The entire palace took another hit, shuddering the floors and walls around her. Wincing, she held up her hands to protect herself from falling debris and continued on, coughing up smoke.

Suddenly—bodies.

Her pace slowed dramatically. They were strewn everywhere, all across the floors, the walls, the broken holes. Men, women, and children lying facedown, arms flung out, limbs unnatural and contorted. Bloodied burkas and turbans, fingers and faces blackened and charred from the flames.

Jasmine felt her knees buckle. She hit the floor on all fours, her vision swimming in tears as she tried to inhale, tried to breathe—

It was her fault.

_It was her fault._

Jasmine dug her fingers into her scalp, the horror drowning her.

_All those innocent people—all those children—_

_Her fault—_

She screamed.

A moment later, so did someone else.

Jasmine jerked up at the sound. It came from far down the hall, down where she couldn't see through the dust. It sounded like a woman's—an ugly scream, a cry for help.

Without hesitation, Jasmine scrambled to her feet. If there was even one person still alive, she would do anything in her power to help. She ran and ran, tripping over dead arms and dead legs, trying to ignore the bile rising in her throat until the smoke began to clear.

Another scream.

Two people came into view. One fell—the woman—as the other stood above her, his cape a stark red. He jerked his arm back, freeing his sword from the woman's abdomen.

Jasmine couldn't hold in her gasp.

The soldier turned his head. She threw herself behind one of the unbroken pillars, praying that he hadn't heard her. But before the panic could set in, she heard another voice.

"Mama…"

There was a child nearby—a young girl. She stood only a few yards from where the woman fell, standing short and meek with a face streaked with tears. To Jasmine's horror, she could see that the soldier heard her too.

The soldier advanced on the child, who fortunately had the wits to know when she was in danger and fled in another direction. The soldier grunted and pursued.

Something feral ignited inside Jasmine.

_No._

Stumbling to her feet, Jasmine fished for the knife in her cloak and gripped the hilt with fervor.

_Not the child._

She had never felt this way before, so determined to protect. Before, she had hesitated to even take Hakim's knife, fearing the responsibility of killing anyone—even men who wanted her dead—but now she felt willing to fight to the death so long as that motherless child was safe.

Ignoring all the pain in her joints, Jasmine took off after them.

* * *

_Walls collapsing._

_Explosions._

_Screaming._

_Catapults firing._

_Swords._

_Crying._

Jafar listened.

The lamp was his echo chamber, his only access to the world outside. It had been uncomfortable at first to adjust to the space after his imprisonment, but now he found it strangely soothing to just listen, to wait. And fortunately for him, the wait wouldn't have to stretch on for thousands of years.

He would be free soon. Very soon.

From the tales and scrolls he studied as the vizier, genies weren't typically discovered until centuries had passed, until another ambitious human decided to make the conquest. By the time he expected to be roused, the street rat and his princess would've been skeletons in their tombs long before he could infract any sort of vengeance.

And yet the moment came not even a year after his imprisonment, the moment he felt her delicate little hands on his lamp, desperate for his help.

Fate was far, far too kind.

He always knew she'd be an incompetent sultan if given the chance; such a title was no place for a woman. Seeing her realize it as she was helpless to plunge Agrabah into war and destruction brought him a satisfaction he hadn't felt since he first tasted magic, and he imagined that pleasure would only grow once he twisted her final wish to set him free.

But for now, he would wait patiently for her return, like a good servant would for its master.

_More explosions._

_More crashing._

Such a pity. The sounds of war gave him little solace, especially since it was Shirabad on the attack. Nothing would please him more than to pluck the lives of each and every one of those red-caped miscreants, to watch them writhe and scream the way they once watched him. Every second the princess ignored him was another second he was chained to the lamp, powerless to stop Shirabad. How could he rule Agrabah if all its living subjects were dead in the end?

Not much later, he heard a great crash and felt pressure on the lamp—pressure that couldn't possibly belong to human hands. The brass around him shuddered and toppled in different directions until it stilled completely.

A smile tugged at his lips.

Human hands or not, pressure was pressure. And he was obligated to obey.

With a great surge of energy, Jafar summoned himself out.

Black smoke cleared to reveal…more smoke. The pungent scent of death filled his nostrils and for the first time ever in the grand palace, he did not immediately recognize his surroundings. It occurred to him finally that he was standing on several fallen ceilings; he recognized the gold, squared architecture in chunks and pieces beneath his robes. He looked up and saw the night sky—something that shouldn't have been visible from his place on the third story or so. No one in sight was alive; bodies laid charred in spitting flames while ash and glass blanketed the floors.

_Such a pity._

Jafar stepped around a split open bookshelf with scorched seams and pages to pick up his lamp—still black and unblemished. Iago flew over his head, his squawking like laughter throughout the ruptured palace.

Just as Jafar started forward, he heard footsteps behind him—five of them, he reckoned—that trampled loud and lumbered. Sounds he knew all too well.

He stopped.

So did the footsteps.

Jafar turned around to face, yes—five Shirabad soldiers with their spears out and ready. He could tell that his appearance baffled them: who was this strange man wearing robes that seemed to be on fire? Moreover, what was such a strange man doing unscathed in the middle of a war zone? It had to be some last ditch trick from Agrabah forces.

The closest soldier, the one with bloodshot eyes raised his spear.

Jafar smirked.

The soldier never got the chance. He let it clatter to the floor as he was suddenly hoisted up in the air by an unseen force, his head thrown backwards.

Jafar felt his power burn like liquid lava in his veins: aroused and excited. The soldier cried out and gasped, unable to find the strength to free himself even in his dashing armor and cape. The others backed away, horrified, and one even stumbled back and fled. Jafar watched his work with utter fascination, intoxicated by the sensation of watching a man of Shirabad in such a powerless state. If he could only sneak his power up to his neck and make it snap…

Unfortunately, genies had limitations when it came to human life. He couldn't kill the soldier outright. But that didn't mean there wasn't a little gray area.

Jafar focused on the others until they joined their companion above. With glee, he turned his attention to the closest opening in the wall where the ocean lay deep and rushing several stories below. He stood there calmly as the soldiers were hovered against their will over the ruined floors and out into open air. He relished their pleas a few moments longer before abruptly loosening his grip. Splashes soon followed and he knew it would be the last sound they'd ever make. Their breastplate armor alone equaled the weight of boulders.

Satisfied, Jafar turned back towards the smoky depths of the palace.

_Now then_.

Where was his beloved master?

* * *

Jasmine lurched back in horror, unable to believe what she just did.

The soldier's screams were quieting now that his throat was filling with blood. He had stopped clawing for the knife in his neck and was on his knees and hands. Jasmine couldn't stop the tears gathering in her eyes. It all happened so fast. He had the child backed up against a wall and Jasmine had only seconds to decide what to do. He was covered head to toe in armor; there was no place for a knife to infiltrate. His neck was the only thing bared.

He slumped to his stomach, motionless.

_She killed him._

Jasmine couldn't stop trembling. She felt sick, evil. The feeling of the knife piercing his skin would forever haunt her, as would the sound he made when it sunk.

The child stared up at her, her face wreaked with emotion. Jasmine blinked back fervently.

_They needed to get out of there._

Jasmine reached for her. "Come with me."

The child didn't hesitate.

Jasmine hurried them down the fractured remains of the palace, leaving the dead soldier behind. All she forced herself to focus on was the child: she had to protect the child. Jasmine led her by her shoulders and held her sleeve against the girl's mouth to ward off some smoke. The girl gripped Jasmine's hand as tight as she would a railing over a cliff, but Jasmine didn't mind the pain.

Voices could be heard in front of them. Jasmine quickly averted them in a different direction; they couldn't run into anymore Shirabad soldiers. Not only did Jasmine no longer have Hakim's knife, but she didn't know if she could withstand killing another man in such a short span of time.

"It's okay," Jasmine whispered, her teeth clattering. "You're so brave. Just hold on."

But they weren't so fortunate.

Two men appeared through the smoke—two Shirabad soldiers hunting for survivors. Jasmine froze in place, terrified, while the child whimpered in her arms. Unlike the last soldier, these two were facing them directly, leaving no possibility of slipping by unseen. At the sight of her, both soldiers drew their swords. Jasmine felt her heart beating uncomfortably fast. These men weren't in the business of sparing women and children: they had orders to kill every civilian they came across.

Jasmine slowly curled her fingers around the child's arm.

Then, with all the strength she could muster, she threw herself and the child into a sprint the other way. She could hear the shouts of the men behind her and their boots following.

Jasmine did most of the running. The child—the poor child—could barely keep up against two seasoned, full-grown warriors, so Jasmine threw her over her shoulder despite the pain in her upper torso. Her breaths came quick and ragged, her lungs weighed down by smoke and exhaustion, but still she forced herself to run, to sprint for her and the child's life—

Running was only half the battle. There were so many obstacles in her path, forcing her to clamber over bodies and furniture and flames that still hadn't been put out. _Knees up_, she chanted to herself. _Keep going. Keep going_.

Jasmine looked up and saw a corner ahead—a perfect hiding spot. She jumped over a charred railing, her last obstacle.

Her left foot didn't make it over.

Ground rushed up to meet her.

_No!_

Jasmine fell face first, losing her grip on the child in mid-air. Sharp pain glittered up and down her arms and forehead, and Jasmine opened her eyes to see she had landed in a pool of glass. Lifting her head, she saw the child had fortunately landed away from her and wasn't too hurt. The child stood and began running over to help her.

But the soldiers. It was too late for that.

Still on her stomach, Jasmine smacked the girl's hand away. "Go!" she said. The girl didn't budge. Jasmine smacked it harder. "_Go_!"

Finally, the girl took off.

Jasmine grit her teeth as her hand fished for the closest weapon she could manage: half a wooden bedpost. As she staggered to her feet again, she turned to face the soldiers and weakly held it up like she would a spear. Trained soldier or pampered sultan—she wouldn't let them take her down without a fight.

One of them cackled. Jasmine felt her blood boil and swung first, aiming to at least catch them off guard. It made a hallow _ding_ as it hit the right soldier's helmet, but his cry was more annoyed than pained. The other advanced and Jasmine swung the opposite way, meeting only air. The soldier laughed fully.

"Such spirit," he mused, "and for what?"

Jasmine braced herself in position, the bedpost held high. "For Agrabah," she said back.

They didn't find her response quite as humorous. One soldier shot out a hand and gripped the bedpost, and Jasmine cried out, wrestling for control. Finally, she freed it and struck it up at the soldier's helmet, up where his eyes were exposed. The soldier let out a screech.

Before Jasmine could turn to the other, she felt an iron tug on her shoulder as she was thrown to the floor. Her shoulder blades and spine exploded in pain, and the bedpost was suddenly out of her hands, too far away to grasp.

She vaguely made out the second soldier moving above her, his sword raised.

_It was over._

Sucking in a breath, Jasmine did the only thing left to do.

She braced herself.

* * *

They had already done it by the time he arrived.

Jafar heard them snickering like children from the other end of the hall, so proud with what they'd done. He didn't bother rushing, instead keeping his pace leveled and tranquil. He held out his hand and let his golden snake staff materialize in his fingers as he walked. The soldiers carried on with their conversation, oblivious to the threat coming their way.

"She really got you, eh?"

"Yeah. It's fucking bleeding."

"We'll just wait here, eh? The battle's over anyway." A metal clink. "Say…look at her breastplate. You don't think she could be…?"

"No."

"No?"

"She didn't fight like a sultan."

A snort. "Were you expecting a good fight? I haven't seen any of the women wearing a plate like this." There was a pause. "Didn't they say something about her being beautiful?"

"Might as well take her head, then."

"Think so?"

"Remember? The prince said a hundred coins to the man who brings him her head."

Jafar started to see their silhouettes through the veil of smoke—their muscled, armored bodies—one sitting, one standing, with her body sprawled at their feet. Both of them quieted, finally hearing the slow rhythmic clap of his staff approaching. The one sitting scrambled to his feet.

"Who's there?"

Jafar wordlessly walked into view, the smoke clearing and clearing with each step. Even with all the confidence the soldiers garnered slaughtering women and children all night, Jafar was pleased to feel a bit of unease within them, a flicker of fear as they stared at him.

One cleared his throat. "Stand down—"

His own scream cut him off as he and his partner were suddenly thrust through the wall behind them and out into a free fall where ocean and cliffs awaited. The rest of the wall crumbled and followed them down.

Jafar turned his attention to the ground.

Jasmine was lying on her back, her eyes closed and her tensed wrinkles lost to unconsciousness. Her braid made a black noose around her neck while her bloodstained hands rested on the side of her torso, the place she'd been stabbed. Her heartbeat was faint and uneven, but audible to him nonetheless. She didn't have much time.

Jafar knelt down beside her and took the time to observe her face in such a calm, helpless state. Even so close to death, even beneath the blood and dust, she was beguiling. He gently reached out and ran the back of his finger down her cheek.

"No more games, princess," he murmured down to her. "Now…you will free me."

Jafar released his staff and the gold disintegrated into a smooth, lily-white contract. A feather took shape in Jasmine's bloodstained fingers, ready to write her signature and return him to the exact state he was in before becoming a genie:

_The most powerful sorcerer in the world._

"I, Jasmine," he said, "being of sound body and mind declare that my final wish is to be saved from certain death…by setting the genie free."

* * *

_…I can make you rich…rich enough to impress a princess…_

_…make you rich…rich enough to impress a princess…_

_…rich enough to impress a princess…_

_…impress a princess…_

_…a princess…_

_…princess…_

Aladdin threw himself forward, gasping for air as if he had been underwater.

Light. Nice and bright.

_Too bright._

He blinked frequently, trying to force his eyes to adjust. His surroundings slowly swam into view: a shelf, a table, a window. Flowers in pots. Books on shelves. He closed his fingers around a soft linen blanket beneath him and made out the small floral designs—the infirmary beds. Infirmary?

He was in the infirmary?

Aladdin steadily lifted his hand to his head and felt for any bandages or blemishes. He didn't feel anything; in fact, he felt perfectly well.

_Why was he in the infirmary?_

Aladdin looked out the window. It had to be around mid-afternoon. The skies were cloudless, the birds chirped in the distance, and the sun gleamed off the crystal gold domes of neighboring towers. It seemed to be a typical beautiful day in Agrabah.

Aladdin curled his knees over the bed towards the ground. The moment he made contact with it, everything came rushing back to him.

_Breakfast. Salads and flatbreads. Jasmine's father choking. Her screaming. His own throat—suddenly closing up—suddenly unable to breathe—_

Aladdin reached for his neck. He took in a breath. He exhaled.

_Nothing was different._

His mind began to race.

_What happened while he was asleep? What about Jasmine's father? Were they poisoned? Was everyone alive? Was Agrabah under attack—?_

Aladdin lurched himself off the bed and up the stairs.

"Jasmine!" he called out. "Jasmine!"

Strangely, the hallways were vacant of guards. How odd. There were never less than three guards that manned this particular section of the palace. Aladdin cautiously made his way down the otherwise untouched hallway—the exquisite pottery, the detailed tapestries fluttering in the wind. They couldn't possibly be under attack. There was no sign of any tampering.

"Jasmine?"

No answer.

Aladdin picked up his pace to a trot. There had to be servants on the third floor—he was sure of it.

With a grunt, he pushed open the large marble door to the next story. Aladdin dropped his hand and stared down the next hallway in obvious confusion. Still no guards.

"Hello?" he called again.

No one answered.

As Aladdin made his way down, he heard a strange, muffled screeching coming from the other end of the hall. He stopped where he was to listen better, to catch every bit of the strange sound.

It took him only a second to recognize.

"Abu…?"

The monkey's strained chirping continued.

"Abu?" Aladdin said louder, starting to run again.

He made his way through several different walkways, trying to follow the echoing of Abu's faraway cries. Every corner he turned, there was no one around. Something wasn't right and it was making him sick to his core.

Aladdin finally came upon the main courtyard where the birds soared above him. He looked out into the streets of Agrabah and saw the miniscule movement of traders and merchants at work. Frowning, he scratched at his head. It seemed all was well in the city. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…

He turned.

The air abruptly left his chest.

Inside the courtyard's fountain laid a large, golden-grey metallic snake statue coiled up with ruby red slits for eyes. It was designed masterfully—the layers of its body weaved together in a perfect formation. Aladdin had only seen this statue in the courtyard once before, back when…

_Back when…_

Abu's screeching chirped loud and clear from the throne room.

Aladdin didn't spare another moment.

Abu was found hovering in the middle of the room, up in the air by several feet. His furry limbs were devoured in a strange purple light, holding him hostage. At the sight of Aladdin, his screeches intensified.

"I got you, buddy," said Aladdin, extending his arms as high as he could. Although he was able to reach Abu's feet, the light made it impossible for him to grasp. Aladdin looked up as Abu screeched louder, his large beady eyes focusing on something behind him.

"Welcome back, Aladdin."

The voice made him freeze. He suddenly found it difficult to move, to breathe.

_It couldn't be._

_It was impossible._

Drawing in a sharp breath, he forced himself to turn.

Jafar casually stepped out from the darkest shadows of the throne room, his robes and turban a bright regal red. He stood as tall as Aladdin remembered and his eyes were as dark and intense.

"You," Aladdin said.

Jafar's lips thinned. "I'm afraid you slept through your own de-coronation." He waved his hand and Abu disintegrated from the air. "But don't take it too personally. Not all thieves were meant to be statesmen."

_And he had his powers back._

Aladdin shook his head, stepping backwards. "I must be dreaming."

Jafar smirked. "And perhaps you would be, had you not done me the honor of getting poisoned."

Questions filled and filled Aladdin's mind, but he had trouble forming them on his tongue. There was no logical way Jafar could have escaped his imprisonment. He was there when Jafar became a genie, when he was thrown back into the Cave of Wonders. Who could have possibly freed Jafar—and in such a short amount of time?

_Jasmine_, he remembered. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

"My wife."

Jafar's smirk widened. There was something horrible in his expression—something devious that tied Aladdin's stomach in knots.

"Safe," said Jafar.

"Is she?"

Aladdin watched as Jafar held out his hand and let his snake staff curl beneath his fingers. He idly examined its intricate details, paying Aladdin no mind.

"You've done well in my absence, street rat," he said. "I'll admit, you… surprised me. Much cleverer than I gave you credit for. But a ruler?" He glanced back at Aladdin. "You see, time has a way of restoring things to its natural order. I am the Sultan. You return to your thievery in the streets. And your wife returns to what she was born to do. Serve the true Sultan."

Growling, Aladdin lunged forward, but he was instantly immobilized by the same purple light that imprisoned Abu.

"Let her go," he bit out.

"And why should I?"

"You don't need her. Take Agrabah—I don't care. Just let her go."

Jafar smiled wickedly.

"No."

"It's me you want. Kill me. Just don't hurt her."

"I have no interest in killing you." Jafar circled Aladdin's spot on the palace floor. "There are some fates worse than death, street rat. Far, far worse. And unfortunately for you, I know your particular type of torture."

With another wave of his hand, an image of Jasmine materialized in the air in front of Aladdin. She was asleep on her side, seemingly at peace and comfortable. Aladdin felt the urge to reach out and touch her despite knowing it was one of Jafar's illusions.

"You love her. You would do anything for her."

Aladdin swallowed.

"Even if it meant crossing a thousand oceans, a thousand deserts," Jafar continued, "for a thousand years, you would do it. If you knew she was here, you would just keep coming back. And so you shall, once I banish you a second time."

The image dissolved. Aladdin stared up at Jafar hatefully.

"Do it," he said.

"You think I'm giving you a chance," Jafar mused. "Tell me. How do you propose to defeat the most powerful sorcerer in the world without a genie? How do you think you'll save her? Let's not be so optimistic, street rat." He removed something small in his robes and tossed it at Aladdin's head. "You're either the most powerful man in the room or you're nothing. And this time, I am that powerful man."

Aladdin winced and opened his eyes to see what hit him.

Tassels. Purple wool. Yellow string.

_Carpet._

"No…" he whispered.

"Return to Agrabah, Aladdin. Dig your way back if you must. I imagine I'll be seeing you every few years, each more desperate to defeat me than the last. Perhaps the next time you return, you'll see that your wife belongs to another—"

"No! No…please."

Aladdin hung his head, ashamed that he was out of tricks and had to beg his enemy for mercy. But he had no other choice. He couldn't bear the thought of Jasmine having to…especially with him so far away, unable to help her—

"Please," he said again. "She is _my_ wife."

Jafar was clearly relishing his desperation. Aladdin watched him walk towards the window, not at all concerned that he was giving him his back. His robe was long and striped with vibrant gold lines. "Do you think you're the first man to find her beautiful? The first street rat to come from nothing, to climb his way to the top and see this girl…"

Aladdin found the silence that followed unbearable. "But you don't love her," he said.

Jafar didn't move from the window for a few more excruciatingly long moments. Finally, he rotated back, and Aladdin was disturbed to see his eyes strangely glazed over—unsympathetic and detached.

"And that is why you are weak," said Jafar.

White lights suddenly quickened beneath Aladdin's waist. He tried one last time to use all his strength to free himself, but to no avail. Gritting his teeth, he stared at Jafar with utmost loathing.

"I won't forget this," Aladdin declared. "I swear—I'll make you pay."

Jafar merely inclined his head.

"I look forward to it."

The lights hiked up to Aladdin's neck, blurring the sight of the throne room. As they continued to devour him whole—he heard Jafar's voice clearly through the storm.

"Oh, and Aladdin? Don't forget your monkey."

Just as a ball of fur hit him directly in the face, the whole world went white and everything that was once around him vanished.

* * *

X


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney. **

* * *

It hadn't felt at all like Jasmine expected.

The thought of dying used to terrify her after her mother was murdered. She imagined the pain and the fear and the helplessness of taking her last breath, but in the moment, there was no time to process what was coming. The soldier stood above her, drove his sword into her abdomen, and that was that. There was pain, she remembered. And then she felt weightless, like everything within her was being released, and then she felt nothing at all.

Jasmine slowly opened her eyes. The gold-bronze ceiling above her was distorted and blurry. Colors started to form—pinks and greens. Something was moving. A woman dressed in white—a maid—was rushing towards her, moving as if she were submerged underwater.

"My princess?" she was saying. "My princess?"

Jasmine blinked once. Her eyelids felt heavy. With effort, she drew in a small breath through her nose.

She could breathe.

_She was alive. _

Jasmine scrambled to sit up, all feeling returning to her body. Her hands flew to her abdomen to find the wound, but there was no pain, no blood, and no incision at all.

"My princess?"

Jasmine looked at the woman fully, her eyes round with shock. "Am I…?" She paused to clear her incredibly dry throat. "What happened?"

"You're safe now," said the maid.

"Safe?"

That didn't seem right. There was a war. Agrabah was under attack. People were dying. She was…

Jasmine looked down at herself. She was wearing the same clothes she wore for battle: the black top and harem pants. The only thing missing was her breastplate. Even her hair was still in the same braid, although most of it had come loose and ran in thick strands down her shoulders.

She looked up at her surroundings and felt her entire body stiffen. She was in her chambers, exactly how it was arranged before the war. The tapestries, the vases, the books, the maps, the furniture—everything, even down to the last acacia flower—was somehow restored.

Jasmine let out a shaky breath. "Shirabad," she said quickly. "My people—"

"Hush now, princess. There is nothing to fear now."

Jasmine looked at the maid again, this time studying her face. Of all the handmaids she had encountered growing up in the palace, she had never seen this woman in her life. "I don't know you."

The maid bowed her head. "I was appointed by the Sultan to be your handmaiden."

"The Sultan?" said Jasmine.

"Yes, princess."

"But I'm…"

The maid reached for her. "He waits for you in the Great Hall. He told me to prepare you." She unbraided the rest of Jasmine's hair and ran a comb through it. Jasmine could do nothing but sit there and try to make sense of everything.

She was the Sultan. _She_ was the Sultan.

_Wasn't she?_

Jasmine turned her head and stilled when she saw the lamp sitting on her drawer.

_No._

Jasmine dodged the maid's comb and clambered off the bed. She grabbed the lamp and rubbed it but nothing happened. The lamp wasn't even warm. Whimpering, Jasmine opened the cap to look inside. Again—nothing. No trace of magic. No trace of Jafar. Just an empty, ordinary black lamp.

"My princess—"

She whirled around, just in time to see her maid vanishing into the air as a tall figure stood in her place. Jasmine gasped and dropped the lamp, her heart pounding ruthlessly against her chest. Jafar stood in the red robes he'd donned as her genie, his gold snake staff woven into his long, ringed fingers. No smoke or ghostly magic accompanied him. From the light outside, Jasmine caught a glimpse of his wrist and could see that his chains were gone.

"Speechless, I see. A fine quality in a woman."

Jasmine forced herself to breathe, to stay calm as she watched Jafar move about her room and peruse its contents. "I'm glad to see you've slept, princess. You seemed awfully tired when making your third wish."

He'd tampered with it, she realized. She didn't know how or why but one thing was clear. _He succeeded_.

"How?" she whispered.

"In order to save your life, my intervention was required. As was your signature."

"You can't do that."

"Would you rather be dead?" he turned back to her. "You should be on your knees in gratitude. I've restored order to how it should be. Agrabah is safe. Shirabad is a pile of rubble. And I…am the Sultan."

The scenery shifted. Suddenly Jasmine was standing with him on the highest balcony of the palace, the cold wind hitting her face as shadows danced over her head. Looking up, she saw a line held by two towers with hundreds of red flags billowing and flapping. Jasmine frowned, finding the way the flags were shaped strange until she realized—

Not flags. Capes. Red capes.

_Shirabad capes._

"What…" she started, but the scene changed again—throwing her and Jafar back into her chambers. She gripped her bedpost for stability, repressing the urge to vomit. Jafar simply waited from the other end of the decorated rug.

Slowly, she looked up at him. "The people will never follow you."

"The people build statues for me as we speak," said Jafar. "Can the same be said about you?"

"I did everything in my power to—"

"And you failed. You let Shirabad slaughter your men. You let them poison your father. Your husband."

Jasmine's anger suddenly ebbed to fear. "Aladdin…"

"I'm afraid Aladdin has taken a little trip. And I doubt he'll return so fast without his carpet."

"Bring him back," she demanded. "Now."

His lips thinned, smiling that smile that always made her want to throttle him. "Are you really in a position to demand things of me?"

"Bring him back, Jafar. I am the true Sultan of Agrabah—"

"No." His voice changed, instantly darker and more serious. "You're a little girl that's been coddled all your life, told that you could be anything when you haven't the slightest clue how to run a kingdom and would rather see people massacred than admit it." He was coming towards her and despite her pride, she felt herself shrink. "You think your beauty and kind heart makes you deserving of such a title? That countries would bow at your feet like your little hand maidens and servants?"

"No," she got out hoarsely.

He was so close, forcing her to look away. "If your mother could see what you've done," he continued. "If she could see her daughter…the reason behind so many Agrabah deaths, even her own father's—"

"No!" she nearly screamed. She tried jerking herself away but realized she couldn't. Her feet were nailed to the floor and she couldn't move at all.

_His magic_, she thought. _His damned stupid magic._ "Let me go."

Jafar was still so close and Jasmine did everything in her power not to panic—the same panic that had welled up in her when he'd broken out of prison and made his first wish. Always he had tested his boundaries when it came to ridiculing her, but as the vizier he was bound to obey her father. When he was free of that, however, she remembered how he didn't so much as hesitate to assert his power. It was the first time she felt afraid of him.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" he asked her, condescending as ever.

"Yes, in fact. I need to find my husband." She tried moving again to no avail. "I'm done playing this game. Let me go. _Now_."

He snickered at her tone. "Always so passionate, aren't you? Always thinking your words can keep me in my place. But I'm afraid any authority you might have had has run its course. There are no more clever street rats, no more genies. So, princess." He stepped closer. "What use are you to me now?"

Jasmine's heart started to race again, loud and uncomfortable. He was toying with her, she knew. She remembered all too well what had transpired after he'd banished Aladdin the last time, how she was stuck in the most horrible position she could have imagined. Only now was it even more egregious that Aladdin was so far away, so beyond her reach, and that Jasmine was bound to her spot with him in her bedroom. The bed frame was touching her thigh and it made her stomach flip.

"Well?" he said.

Jasmine mustered up all the courage to look him in the eye despite their proximity. If this was her fate, so be it—but she would not bow to cowardice. She would fight him every step of the way and he would never have the satisfaction of knowing she went down easily.

"I will not be your bride," she spoke clear and firm.

Jafar held her stare. Seconds rolled by, the tension unbearable, until fortunately he broke away, walking back across the rug. "Without your father here to humiliate, I fail to see the point in such a thing myself." He faced her again. "You see, I could have any woman. I come summon one right now, even. Someone with the wit to know her place."

He made a zagging motion with his finger and indeed, a woman was summoned out of thin air. Jasmine stared at her. She looked as real as ever and she was gorgeous. Her hair was long and shiny, and her eyes were the color of spring water. "How could you possibly compare?"

Jasmine bit down on her cheek, remembering that an insult from him was far better than any compliment. The insults she could handle.

"I'm relieved," she said, looking away.

Jafar ran a hand through the woman, making her dissolve into nothing. "So again, what do you have to offer me?"

Jasmine said nothing. No good answers came to mind: there was no use trying to bargain with him for control of Agrabah. Jafar was never a fair man. He played to win—and to win meant to win everything. He was far too savvy for her to trick him the way he'd tricked her. Any option he would likely consider—killing her, bedding her, even demoting her to a servant—was utterly abhorrent for her to voice.

"Nothing?" said Jafar, lifting his eyebrows. "Pity. I suppose you might find the dungeons to your liking, then."

Jasmine stared back at him, hate filling every inch of her. "It sounds preferable to fucking imaginary illusions."

Her response amused him and she hated it—hated how he got under her skin so easily.

"Send my regards to the rats," he told her, and then with one swift slam of his scepter, she was transported out of her chambers.

She landed directly into a dungeon cell. Three walls of granite rock surrounded her while the fourth was barred in thick, rusted metal. Dented chains and shackles limped against the far walls. No furniture. No bed. Only a window, though small, up where the wall met the roof—also barred off and impossible to reach. It cast a small fan of sunlight across the floor, a lone flare in an otherwise dark cell. The smell of straw was pungent.

After standing, Jasmine rushed the bars—hoping there was a chance they hadn't been locked yet. The metal answered hard and unforgiving on her soft palms. She screamed in frustration.

Then, gathering herself up in her arms on the floor, Jasmine let herself surrender to her anguish. How in the world was she going to save Agrabah from Jafar in a place like this? In a world where he had his powers back—where she was helpless to stop him?

_It was her fault_, was all she could think. _Everything—all of it—was her fault._

"I'm sorry, Baba," she whispered out into the empty silence.

* * *

After the contract for her third wish was signed, Jafar remembered the feather: the way it drifted and floated out of her bloodstained fingers, no longer bound by some magical force keeping it upright. When it finally hit the ground beside her, his torso was consumed in bright, red light.

First, it was his left chain. It clinked open and fell away in a scatter of gold dust. Then the right followed. Soft wind rustled against his newly exposed wrists. The light lowered him to the ground, no longer imprisoned, and the black lamp at his feet tipped over, now a useless chunk of brass.

He laughed.

There was no helping it. It had worked. After only a year of imprisonment when he anticipated centuries—he was free from his restraints for good. New power hummed within him. Not the cosmic, god-like power he was used to—but something more personal, more dangerous. Power without a leash.

Jafar spread his palms wide and let himself elevate into the air. Something was approaching the palace, something fast. Through the dust and walls, Jafar made out another fireball rapidly descending towards the palace, launched elsewhere from a Shirabad catapult. Jafar inhaled through his nose before hoisting his hand out towards the fireball. It stopped and hovered midair, obedient to its unseen master.

Then, Jafar brought his hands together—a great clap—and the world went white.

It took only seconds. Seconds, like the princess wanted when seeking him out. Seconds for the entirety of the Shirabad country to collapse into destruction. Seconds for the slaughtering of Agrabah citizens to stop. Seconds for all the remaining Shirabad soldiers to be lined up in front of him. Seconds for them to all be dead at his feet.

When it came to rebuilding, Jafar's first focus was on the outer walls. Dutifully, the rock and stone stacked on top of itself, filling in extraneous cracks due to war and old age. The markets came next. Pillaged vendors and carts were refilled with goods: the jewels glistened and the fruits were ripe and full of color. Remnants of brick and wood were swept back into their original structures of homes and towers and shops.

The palace came last.

Jafar hovered within its remains, his eyes closed and his palms out. Glass and marble and threads went flying in every direction but none so much as scraped his skin. In seconds, the palace too had been restored to its original design without a trace of the horror that had transpired moments before. Every dead body was removed and placed methodically in the burial grounds of Agrabah, out where Jafar had greatly extended the fields to make room. Genie or no genie, he had no power to bring the deceased civilians back to life.

But he didn't stop there.

He was the Sultan now. It didn't hurt to refine the palace details to his preference. He went about each room, adding something new and eliminating any relics that the former Sultans had favored. He finished with animating a long metal snake in the head fountain, a symbol of his new reign.

Jafar opened his eyes.

Beneath a newly installed stained-glass window, the princess was still on her back. Her heartbeat thudded once, weakly, and then barely returned. Perhaps she was trying to escape him while she could, Jafar mused. Unfortunately, that was simply not in the cards. He had bigger plans for her and it would be terribly ungrateful of him to let the girl responsible for freeing him die on his watch.

Once he came to stand above her, he leaned down and extended his hand to her torso. Immediately, the bleeding ceased and her wound stitched itself back up, leaving only her smooth brown skin. Dust and soot slid off her body like dry sand, and the cuts that ran down her arms and legs disappeared. She suddenly drew in a sharp breath, filling her lungs with air, and then relaxed into sleep.

When she woke, he decided, he would deal with her.

For now, he would focus on the fortunate civilians that had fled Agrabah before the battle started. It was only fitting that they return home to meet their new Sultan. And among them, he realized, was a certain street rat that needed healing from a terrible poison.

How could he—the merciful, kind Sultan he was—not lend a helping hand?

* * *

In the span of one week, Jafar was named ruler of all kingdoms.

Word spread fast of the sorcerer Sultan and how he had singlehandedly saved Agrabah, rebuilt a thriving city from a battlefield, and killed thousands of an enemy country with a simple snap of his fingers. Kings and queens throughout the land moved hastily to extend their alliance with the magician, fearing the fate of Shirabad should they do no less. Within days, armies had marched the deserts to swear fealty to their new ruler, carrying lavish gifts and jewels and chests of gold. Jafar stepped out of his palace and was met by several of the highest lords on their knees.

"Anything for you, my Sultan," they said. "Ask anything of us and it will be yours."

Jafar accepted their endorsements but declined the offer to accept total domination. He had little interest in ruling foreign fish ports and snow towns. So long as the monarchs swore loyalty to him, he decreed, they were permitted to continue ruling their respective kingdoms.

It was Agrabah he wanted.

Like the neighboring countries, the surviving civilians were quick to show their support. Many were fearful at first. They had been loyal to the princess when she was in charge and the abrupt shift of power made them uneasy—especially to the former vizier, now sorcerer. As they returned to their homes and saw the magnitude of his unbridled power, however, they gradually stopped asking about their female Sultan.

Men of all backgrounds—traders, dancers, businessmen—came to his doors and offered to take arms as guardsmen. They wanted to support him, to show their gratitude to the leader that had saved them all. Jafar took his time selecting the ones most loyal and most aligned with his ruling methodology. They were far more obedient and willing to carry out orders than any soldier of Hakim's. When Jafar was away, the captains would spend hours of their time at the war table, figuring out how to use his resources to amplify the industry to its fullest potential.

On the seventh day, they started building a statue of him in the town square.

Jafar supplied them with mounds of stone and utensils and watched with triumph. It would be far easier for him to just summon a statue himself, but there was something more satisfying about watching them spend hours and hours of their time to sing his praises. It was a process that he savored without the intervention of magic.

On the eighth day, he was approached by a father.

Jafar had been standing on the balcony overlooking the statue when the man came running in. "My Sultan, my Sultan!" he was saying, and was instantly blocked by five of his guardsmen. "I must give you my deepest gratitude for saving my family. You don't know how much this means—" Jafar inclined his head but gave no response. The man reached out and Jafar realized he was holding some sort of pink silk. "Please do me the honor, great Sultan, of accepting my eldest daughter as your wife."

The guards took the cue to remove the man from the building, where his shouts of gratitude echoed throughout the hallways and stairwell. Although silent, the gears in Jafar's mind started to turn. That had been something he'd been missing since his rule: female companionship. It was only fitting that he should enjoy all the spoils of war.

He focused back on the statue and the same outlook came to mind. He could summon a woman in the blink of an eye and refine her to his exact tastes, but where was the satisfaction in that? It was far more appealing to have a real woman at his side, someone that wanted to be there like his guardsmen and monarchs and civilians.

That night, Jafar called upon one of his captains—a strong young man with broad shoulders to the throne room.

"Your name," said Jafar.

"Amir, my Sultan."

"Yes. Amir. Would you say, Amir, that you have an eye for beauty?"

The captain paused briefly. "I believe so, my Sultan."

"Good." Jafar stood and materialized his snake staff underneath his palm. "You will be doing some traveling, Amir. A grand search across Agrabah for the most beautiful young women. I intend to make a harem."

"Yes, my Sultan."

A middle-aged woman in dark robes stepped out from behind the captain. Jafar knew her as the best brothel keeper in Agrabah. "She will accompany you," said Jafar. "I have given her a device to transport you both to the next district without the delay of travel. You will find thirty of the best women and bring them back to the palace. I will choose ten for the harem myself."

"Yes, my Sultan," said the captain. "How long do we have?"

"By tomorrow night, I expect to make my selections."

The captain bowed his head and pressed his fist to his breastplate. Just as him and the brothel keeper started out, a thought occurred to Jafar. "And Amir."

The captain swiveled obediently. Jafar simply smiled.

"Don't forget the princess in my dungeon."

* * *

"Get up."

The harshness in the guard's voice was what woke her. Jasmine blinked and pushed herself off the rock wall, letting the warmth she'd spent hours accumulating escape into the cold air. It had to be late afternoon based on how the light hit the floor of her cell, although the days seemed to blur together after the seventh day.

Jasmine couldn't remember the last time she'd gone more the two days without a bath. Every hour, she felt more and more disgusting. Her skin was itchy, her nails were filled with dirt, and her hair—twisted into a self-made braid to keep out of her face when she cried—was oily and unclean. The feeling of being unclean at all was tortuous, almost as tortuous as her thoughts of Aladdin and her father and the Shirabad soldier she'd killed in the midst of battle.

The guard fumbled with the lock for a few moments before swinging open the barred door. He wasted no time lumbering into her cell and grabbing her forearm. Jasmine struggled to remain upright as he dragged her out and down the dungeon hallways. "Where are you taking me?"

"Sultan's orders."

"What does he want?"

The guard didn't answer.

She'd been hoping to avoid this for as long as she could. She knew if she called for him, he'd appear, ready to listen to what use she could make of herself to him. Instead she spent hours in her cell trying to formulate a plan, some way she could reclaim control of Agrabah again—and she didn't want to call him down until such an idea was hatched and rehearsed in her head.

The light blinded her eyes as the guard walked her into the palace and in the direction of her chambers. Once he opened her door, she was shoved inside.

"Clean yourself. They will help you. I will retrieve you at sunset."

_They?_ Jasmine thought as the door was slammed behind her.

Sure enough, she looked up to see two handmaids with their heads bowed. One was the handmaid from earlier, the one who had brushed her hair and told her the city was safe. The other was an older woman with small beady eyes and a timeworn, wrinkled face. Jasmine exhaled, wishing more than ever that it had been Dalia there waiting for her.

"What's happening?" she asked them, trying to keep her voice calm.

The older woman lifted her head. "The Sultan is creating a harem tonight. He requested that you be a part of the selection."

Jasmine instantly felt her stomach tighten. "What?"

"I've drawn your bath, princess," said the younger handmaid, "to help you prepare—"

"No." Jasmine shot out her hand protectively, stopping the handmaid from coming further. Her breath quickened and she suddenly grew very nauseous. "No. Absolutely not."

Both handmaids said nothing as Jasmine stumbled off to her bedroom, trying to put as much distance between herself and them as possible.

A _harem?_

A sickening shiver fell over her. How dare Jafar disrupt the sanctity of royal Agrabah tradition. He didn't even have the decency to limit his predilections to one consort.

To her disgust, Jasmine saw an unfamiliar dress already laid out on her bed. It was dark red, bordered with elaborate gold trim and beads down the bodice and collarbone. At the waist, the full skirt was unleashed in thick pleated waves, only interrupted by gold embroidery at the feet. Beside it sat several gold accessories: earrings, a necklace, and bracelets. Jasmine hesitantly touched a bracelet meant to be worn from her wrist to her elbow. It was coiled up in circles and the texture was strangely scaly. Only then did Jasmine realize it was a snake replicate.

She pulled back her hand as if the bracelet had burned her.

_He couldn't be serious._

Footsteps came. "Princess, your bath is getting cold—"

"No."

"Princess?"

Jasmine turned to them and softened her voice. "I'm sorry—but I'm not wearing that. I'm not going."

Both women looked at one another, perplexed. "But you must," said the younger one. "The guard will be coming back."

Jasmine sat down on the bed and folded her arms.

"He wants me clean and polished like a whore? He can end my life instead."

* * *

Night descended over Agrabah.

The selection was held in the throne room. Men and women from all over the country hugged the walls wearing their best clothes and jewelry, filling the room with exotic colors. In the middle stood thirty young women dressed in beautiful saris and veils, divided neatly in three long lines.

Jafar kept his face stoic as he watched the scene unfold. He sat in his conjured throne—something tall and ornate that matched the throne room's intricate décor. His fingers rested on the gaping mouth of a viper—his arm rests—while he kept one foot rested on the matching stool. He'd replaced his red attire with new black robes and a black turban, a stark contrast to the exuberant hues of his would-be suitors.

The young captain, Amir, stepped up beside his throne once he'd finished arranging the women in place. "There they are, my Sultan."

"All but one," said Jafar.

Amir looked them over. "Yes," he admitted.

Jafar had not forgotten. The night wouldn't be nearly as entertaining if not for the arrival of one certain guest and he was prepared to make all of Agrabah wait until she appeared.

Shortly after, the doors opened. Several of the guests cleared the way for two guards struggling to drag along the princess, who was quite obviously making their task a nightmare. She dug her little Moroccan heels into the floor as a means of resistance, but she was no match for the hefty build of both guardsmen put together. They finally lined her up next to the farthest woman on the left where she shook off their grips—reluctantly accepting defeat.

Jafar couldn't help but sneer. He noticed that no one had succeeded in dressing her in the red gown he'd provided, or even bathed her for that matter. She was wearing the same ripped black garments from her time at war, clearly an attempt to sabotage her chances at being chosen. It was rare for him to ever see her in such a state of disarray; always she had been groomed and pampered and immaculate. What a sight she was now next to all those women wearing dresses and makeup. She stuck out like a sore thumb.

Iago chortled gleefully behind him on the perch, echoing his sentiment.

"Now, my Sultan," said Amir, "they are all here."

Jafar stood from his throne and the women bowed their heads, except Jasmine—who was looking away. Behind them, the guests and families of the women whispered amongst themselves, asking one another if this new arrival was indeed the female Sultan who'd disappeared. Perhaps, some said. It couldn't be, some said.

Jafar sauntered down the stairs and stepped in front of the first young woman. She was small and wiry, with flowers in her hair and a beaded headscarf. Pretty enough to take into his bed when he was the vizier but not as the Sultan. He moved on to the second. Also pretty, but lacking something. The third he liked—her figure, her face, her almond eyes. He gestured her out and she stepped forward, differentiating herself from the others. He continued on. The fourth, no. The fifth, too tall. The sixth, no. The seventh—

He gradually made his way through all three lines, picking out the women he was most attracted to. The captain and the brothel keeper had done well overall, although several of the foreign women they'd chosen were simply not his preference. They did, however, find some alluring Agrabah beauties—and those were the ones that made up the majority of his harem lineup. Nine of the thirty stood apart from the others by the time Jafar came upon the last few in the third row.

He could see Jasmine stiffen as he grew closer, her eyes narrowed and focused on the ground. After dismissing the remaining few, Jafar stepped in front of the woman next to Jasmine. She was shy—that much was obvious by her stance, but her face was visually appealing and her eyes were a bright exotic green. Jafar gestured her out as well: his tenth pick.

He only needed ten for his harem. The selection process was complete.

Jafar noticed Jasmine recoil when he stepped to her anyway. When she lifted her head and met his stare, her brown eyes burned with hate. He took his time noting every detail of her face—particularly her flaws. Her hair sat in a tangled, dismantled braid while a faint layer of dirt fell across her cheeks and nose. And yet despite her uncomely appearance, she still held up her chin as if she were the ruler of Agrabah.

Jafar felt a stirring in his chest again, the same feeling that crept up every time he looked at her. Perhaps he expected it to be different, that he would change his mind now that she was in a deplorable state, but alas, it was no use. Even someone with his powers could not remove the man from the sorcerer.

He relished her appalled scream as he named her his eleventh pick.

* * *

X


End file.
